


According To The General Public

by breakdancingonthemoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Neither Do I, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dirty Talk, Ew, Happy Ending, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Like, Rimming, So fair warning, Teen Winchesters, Top Sam Winchester, because dean likes getting hit, explicit - Freeform, kind of, sam cums in his pants lmao, sam has no goddamn idea what dirty talk sounds like, side characters, slight BDSM, there's ass eating in here, they show up for like 3 seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 01:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17274395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakdancingonthemoon/pseuds/breakdancingonthemoon
Summary: "I want you so bad I can't think sometimes." Dean whispers, fingers threading through the sweaty bangs on Sam's forehead. Sam feels a lump in his throat so wide it could swallow him, consume him, take everything all apart and put it back together in a four letter word he's spoken all his life.





	According To The General Public

**Author's Note:**

> So this got deleted like 3 years ago and I thought there was absolutely no way I'd ever find it again because I didn't have it saved anywhere but lo and behold someone messaged be and said they'd copied it so here y'all go let's get this bread

Of fucking  _course_ Dean forgot to put a sock on the door. 

In all fairness, he probably wasn't expecting his brother home so early. Sam was supposed to be spending the night at Tom McCarthy's house, had been planning to all week, and was getting a ride home from Tom's mom tomorrow afternoon. But three hours after Dean dropped him off, hand ruffling his hair,  _dude, if I hear that you haven't made out with his sister by the time you get back, I'm disowning you,_ and a kiss on the head, (he's had to step on tiptoes to reach ever since Sam's last growth spurt,)  Sam realized that he left his toothbrush in the bathroom.

He should've listened to Tom, borrowed a fucking toothbrush and been done with it, but  _it's no big deal, I'll be gone fifteen minutes,_ the motel was close enough, who  _cared..._  

So Sam waltzed right in, grabbed his toothbrush, and went to say hi to Dean before he checked back out. He heard low voices, and figured he was watching T.V or something, so he just went right ahead and nudged the bedroom door open.

Which leads to right about now. With Sam, frozen in the doorway, staring at his brother.

Who forgot to put a fucking sock on the door.

Normally, this wouldn't be that big of a deal. Sam's been walking in on Dean and the chick of the week since Dean learned what sex was. He was used to it.

Except this time there's no chick of the week. Dean is on his hands and knees on the bed with a dick in his mouth.

And Sam is having an aneurysm. 

Sam was lying on that bed three hours ago, doing his homework while Dean cleaned the guns right next to him.

Sam was sleeping in that bed last night, snug up against a strong chest and a steady heartbeat, with Dean stealing the sheets and mumbling Star Wars theories in his ear.

And now there are two strangers in that bed, having sex with his brother.

Oh, yeah. Two of them.

Sam can't breathe.

No one's noticed him yet; he could just back out slowly and run all the way to Tom's house, put the scene that's burning into his corneas at the back of his mind and bleach them from his memory. But just then, Dean makes this  _noise,_ high pitched and needy and sounding nothing like himself, and  _oh my god._

Sam knows about sex. Well, he knows the  _mechanics_ of it, about what went where and how birth control worked, because Dean had this weird thing about Sam being as young as possible for as long as he could be, (he believed in the Easter bunny until he was  _eleven,)_  and it wasn't like  _Dad_  was going to give him the talk, so Sam knows about fifteen different methods of preventing pregnancy, but has no idea what a blowjob feels like.

He can't even begin to imagine what  _giving_ one feels like, but it must feel fucking  _amazing_ if the sounds Dean's making have anything to do with it. 

The guy behind his brother is stockier than him, wider shoulders framed against a trembling back while candy apple eyes look up, (was that freaking  _Kieth!?_ Dean had said he  _hated_  that guy, something about a superiority complex and Daddy's money,) open and wet, as he leans down and takes the boy in front of him to the base. Jesus, his nose is smushed up against his groin and Kieth sounds like he's  _dying._ Lips stretch wide, and Dean looks drunk, limbs heavy and skin flushed.His throat works around it, and when he starts pulling off the guy on his back grabs the back of his neck and pushes him back down, making him sputter and squirm. 

"Stay down, Winchester." Dean groans, eyes watering and snot running down his nose. His legs shift against the bed restlessly and his throat convulses.

_Jesus._

Finally, the guy behind him lets go and Dean pulls off with a wet slurping sound that makes Sam's pulse jump, and  _how has nobody noticed him yet._ Dean's chest's heaving as spit trickles down his chin, trying to get enough air into his chest cavity. The guy behind him jerks his hips and Dean yelps, shaking legs flexing and hands tightening on the sheets that he'd wrapped around Sam's shoulders last night while they were watching Alien. ( " _Dude, if you were locked in a room with no one but Ripley, Uhura, and Princess Leia, who would you bang first?"_  ) He whimpers as the boy does it again, grinding back, and from this angle Sam hadn't seen, he hadn't fucking seen, and Dean keens out and arches his back and  _Dean has a dick in his ass, oh my fucking god-_

"C-c'mon, Tony, I c'n take it, p-please..."

The guy named Tony grabs Dean's hips and pulls him backwards as he thrusts forward,  _hard,_ and Dean is fucking crying out and pushing back, regaining his footing, "Harder, c'mon, I can take it," And Kieth is guiding him back to his spit slicked cock and  _Dean is getting screwed in the ass._ The boy who used to lullaby him to sleep, the boy that stole peanut butter from the store when he was ten and dad hadn't left behind enough money to feed them, the boy that smirks and grimaces and smiles and makes warmth blossom in Sam's chest every time. A low litany of  _fuck me, fuck me, I can take it, fuck me,_ is streaming out of his mouth, throat scratchy and thick from use. He's pushing back,  _god, s-so much, need it need it need it,_ wet slap of skin on skin and he's reaching down, past his balls, shaking fingers feeling where the cock is moving in and out of him. Sam, caught between nausea and jealousy, finally unfreezes long enough to scramble backwards and trip over a shirt ( _why can't Dean just put his goddamn laundry in the duffel when he's done_ ,) and to his horror, Dean hear's it. His eyes flick over to the doorway, bubble gum lips bobbing up and down, hips thrusting back against a stranger, and his gaze locks with Sammy's.

Sammy, who is currently sitting, disheveled, on his ass, with the hardest boner he's ever had in his life. 

Dean's eyes go wide, dog-whipped terrified, and he starts thrashing under Tony and Kieth, but he's stuck. Going forward meant choking, going back meant getting screwed, and his sudden earnestness is making Tony go faster, harder,  _deeper,_ and Dean is moaning so loud the neighbors can probably hear. Sam can't breathe, can't take it, and his hand creeps down to cover himself because Dean is still staring at him. But Dean's eyes catch the movement, and Sam isn't quick enough to hide it and fuck,  _fuck,_ Dean's eyes snap back up to his.

Sam cums in his pants.

And Dean watches.

Sam's eyes snap tight and he bites his lip so hard he tastes copper, pulse skyrocketing when he hears Dean groan, low and wet and fucking  _desperate,_ in front of him. He open his eyes in time to see Dean clench his own, coming in long strips across the bed that Sam stitched him up in last week after the Ghoul hunt.

Sam runs.

He tells Tom he couldn't find his toothbrush.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

They weren't talking about it.

Big fucking surprise.

He stayed as late as he possibly could at the McCarthy's, coming home when it was dark and the Impala was back in the driveway. Dad was conked out on the couch, patched up by steady hands that fed him soup when he was sick, that gripped threadbare sheets in sweaty palms.

Dean is in the kitchen, stitching up Dad's shirt.

He looks up when he sees Sam enter, impulse to the sound of the door opening, and freezes.

They stare at each other, Sam's heart fluttering in time with the rise and fall of his brother's frantic chest.

Dean smirks. "Dude, did you finally kiss Amanda?"

Sam lets out a breathe he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "She's like two years older than me, Dean."

Laughter. Tight and strained, and Dean stands up and makes his way over to the counter, picking up a spool of blue thread. "Wouldn't've stopped me. Remember that Destiny chick from Illinois?"

Sam wrinkles his nose and plops down on top of the table, legs almost too tall to comfortably sit. "Please tell me you didn't hit that."

Broad shoulders. Strong, heavy shoulders that cradled Sam and boxed him in from the monsters under his bed. Shoulders that could shake from the exertion of keeping himself up while someone fucked him from behind. Shoulders that are finally relaxing, haunches simmering down and gentle relief flooding him. "Hey, older women. I'm telln' ya, Sammy, they can teach you shit you ain't even  _heard_ of." He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of milk, a day over but still good. "You hungry, kiddo? I could whip us up a couple'a grilled cheeses-"

"I saw, Dean."

There go the haunches, rised back up and threadier then before. Bow legs fidget slightly, and Sam realizes that Dean's walking funnier than usual, legs farther apart, movements kinda slow and ginger. "Don't know what you're talkn' about, kiddo."

Sam can feel his pulse jumping, greasy skin curtesy of puberty sliding across a wooden tabletop, hands splayed and shaking. "Yeah. You do."

Dean continues grabbing stuff out of the fridge. American cheese, a half empty bag of white bread. Tomatoes. "Do you want some tomato slices on yours? Haven't done that in a while."

"Dean, it's okay-"

The milk slams down hard on the counter top, splashing slightly over the sides. " _Shut the fuck up, Sammy."_

Sam flinches.

White knuckles grip the counter, palms digging into the wooden edge. Dean is caved in on himself, back spread wide and threatened, and the sharp glint to his voice cuts like ceraded steel through Sam's lungs.

"You left for Tom's house last night. You haven't been home since. Do you want tomato slices?"

Sam's chest is tight and quivering, too long limbs folding forward, making himself small. "Two, please."

Two and a half sandwiches, three glasses of milk, and the last snickers bar later, Dean swallows. "Don't tell Dad."

Sam doesn't respond. Doesn't nod. Just places his half eaten snickers bar on Dean's uneaten plate and starts talking about his history project.

 

\--------------------------------

 

It's been three weeks, and they still aren't talking about it.

Sam is losing his goddamn mind.

Dean eating a banana, Dean slurping up a milkshake, Dean pulling him close in their too small bed and mumbling, "what if turtles could fly, man," voice low and throaty from being stuck halfway in a dream. It's like jamming an ice pick into the soft tissue behind his corneas, scratching poker hot words into the grey matter of his brain. His thoughts are full of bubble gum lips and candy apple eyes. His heart is full of smirking wise cracks and out-of-tune Bon Jovi ballads. His dreams are full of a begging boy, shaking seamlessly underneath him,  _love you's_ whispered into lanky teenage necks.

And Sam doesn't understand, dense and confused and hormonal. He doesn't get it, and doesn't get it, and doesn't get it again. Because this is  _Dean,_ leather and whiskey and weeping guitars with a gun in his hand and a knife under his pillow. This is Dean, the good little soldier, who laughs too loud and punches too hard and sings off key in the shower. This is a sarcastic, loud mouthed, ass of a boy who's more man then Sam wants to let on, huge hands that can break bone gentle on his forehead when he takes Sam's temperature. Dean, who still sometimes let's him sit in his lap during football games if he begs enough, even though he's fifteen and he squirms a lot and Dad says no. And Sam doesn't understand.

He's been old enough to join in on hunts for a while now, but the one's he's actually  _allowed_ on are few and far between. But there's this hunt Dad's been working for a couple weeks now, and shits gotten serious enough with this witch that he brings both boys on the ride to Montana to get knocked around some PTA mom's house half the night before finally intercepting a virgin sacrifice going on at the soccer bake sale. Dean's soaring from adrenaline and lack of sleep and the fact that sweet little Martha Pollack showed her gratitude in the back seat of his car.

But the high is wearing off, and Sam can tell that Dean's busted up pretty bad. Inky pink has stretched out over the setting sky by the time the get back to the motel, and in the fading light, Dean's limping.

"You boys okay?" Dad has plopped himself down on the couch, arm flung over his face, and it doesn't look like he'll be moving for the next two days.

"We're fine, sir." Dan grimaces as he peels his jacket off, pausing every few seconds to squeeze his eyes shut, before starting up again, and Sam rolls his eyes at how oblivious Dean is to how burned out he really feels.

"Dude, sit down. You look like one too many bad burritos are trying to come back up your throat." Dean grunts and makes his way over to the bed, plopping down heavily.

"Aw, Sammy, I didn't know you cared." That stupid cocky grin is peaking up at him from a still bleeding lip.

"If I had to choose between you and a lifetime supply of cornmeal, I'd never go hungry again," Sam lies through his teeth, grabbing the rusted up medkit that they store the bandages in.

"I've never been more offended in my life."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Jackets and flannels and t-shirts pile up on the dusty floor as the pipes start creaking from the bathroom. Dad'll shower, sleep for twelve hours, and then eat half the fridge tomorrow morning before jumping right back up and moving in on the poltergeist in Wordsworth. For probably the first time, Sam isn't going to throw a fit about changing schools and leaving before the science fair. He wants to get the hell outta dodge, bundle up in their dirty car with a Nirvana song playing on the radio. He wants to get away from witches and flying snicker doodles and things that are strong enough to make Dean wince when he lifts his shirt up over his head-

“ _What the hell is that!?"_   Too loud, Sam's voice cracking on the upswing with a high pitch that hasn't deepened yet. He's staring at his brothers hips, hung low and letting out the peek of yellowing splotches and Sam needs to see them  _right the fuck now,_ what if Dean's cursed, what if that fucking PTA mom got him, and he's three seconds from dropping onto his knees and tearing this shithole sideways to look for a hex bag. De automatically hunches over, bundling the cloth in his lap as if that'll hide a goddamn thing. He's blanched white, panicky, which isn’t doing a whole fucking lot for Sam's heart rate right now. They’re dark and deep, bigger than the print of Sam’s thumb when he reflexively matches one up to cover in a shaking palm.

His brother smacks his hand away, "Dean, oh my god what happened, let me see it, let me see-" Dean's hyperventilating while Sam can't breathe.

"It's nothing, Sammy, no big deal-" His brother’s still trying to cover the marks but his face is frantic, eyes a clear and gorgeous green, dug-in set to it that usually gets aimed at the monsters they kill. Sam's not really paying attention anymore, too busy hitting rewind on everything that happened that night, who Dean managed to piss off to get on their hit list. Sam's clamoring onto the bed after him, Dean's back hitting the mattress and shoving Sam away,  _hard._ "Dude, let it go, I swear it's nothing..." But it isn't adding up, thoughts jumping from conclusion to conclusion and all Sam can get out is a furious, “Who did this?"

Dean looks mortified, bright pink tinging from his ears to his collarbones.

Sam gets it.

"I-I can explain."

He doesn't listen.

His hands are gripping onto Dean's wrists so tight he can feel the tendons rubbing. Feel his heart beat racing.

Dean has mottled purple finger prints on his hipbones, spreading across like polka dots, pressed in like a stain. Sam feels the air squeezed out of his diaphragm. Finger print bruises marring the skin on his big brothers body, huge and thick and not a girls.

Sam's brain doesn't process the command directly when he presses lightly to the hot greenish spots.

"Sammy." Dean sounds sick.

Sam caresses his knuckles back and forth, back and forth, feeling tiny jerks and baby flinches from his brother every time he touches too hard. He pushes his thumb into the space between bone where a painted on print is visible.

Dean stops breathing.

Sam presses harder.

“Sammy,” Dean says, trying to move, heavy lidded and trembling,  eyes just as scared as they were when he saw his little brother in the doorway. “Sammy, you, you—c’mon Sam, stop.”

"Someone grabbed you." Sam breathes out, tugging at the waistband of Dean's jeans, revealing more flowery purple welts, and his chest is tighttighttight with too much heat, too much noise,  _deandeandean._ "Someone grabbed you from the front, Dean. Is that why you were limping so much? Acting so hurt?" 

Dean's jeans are practically ripped down, trapping his thighs and showing more butterfly bruises. Sam's hands are shaking so fucking hard when they wrap around hips and frame those dots, thumbs pressing into a trembling pelvis. "When the fuck did you have time to do this. Did it hurt when you moved? Did it hurt when he touched you?"

Dean inhales sharply, legs pressing up quick and sharp and almost unconsciously; He's got his feet braced on the bed, around Sam. “Jesus  _Christ_ , Sam, don't do that!"

Sam's heart is beating out of his chest, little  _patpatpat_ like a hammer on his rib cage. His hands drop to either side of Dean's head on the mattress, eyes fixed on the hand shaped bruises. "You'd let some fucking stranger touch you there, but not me?"

Jealousy. He's  _jealous._ It's green and loud like thunder in his ears, when Dean says, "It's not that bad, he was just doin' what I wanted him to do-"

"I wouldn't hurt you. If you let me touch you there, I wouldn't fucking hurt you."

Dean's sweet mouth is open, little pants escaping without his consent and his expression is trying to be stern but only looking desperate. "He didn't do nothing I didn't want him to do."

_Oh my fucking god._

Sam groans, low in his belly and is almost shocked at how feral the sound is, Dean's eyes widening in shock. He grips him under the knees and drags him down the bed, away from the pillows and into the middle of it all. "He fucked you so hard you bruised, De. You asked him for that? You asked him to mark you up, under your pants so no one would see?" Sam has to pause, take a breath, because his dick is hard and poking into Dean's thigh and Dean can feel it,  _he can feel it._ He's staring at it with those pretty blonde lashes and those candy green eyes. He flattens his hands on Dean’s thighs and feels them up and down. “He touch you like this? He get between your legs and push them open wide?" He pants, and forces Dean's legs wider,  _wider, oh my fucking god,_ and Dean gasps and thrusts his hands down to grip his knees. "Look at your legs. Used to think you were a cowboy when we were younger, those bowlegs. They’re just like that huh? Spread already. Used to having somebody between them, huh?" What the fuck. What the fuck is he saying. Sam's hands are shaking so hard, Dean practically in his lap and still flat on the bed, rubbing upupup his inner thighs till they tremble and jerk. "Then you always, you always walk like you’ve been fucked. Like you’ve been fucked so much and so hard it bent your bones.” He can't control what's coming out of his mouth. What is he doing, what're they doing, Dean's paralyzed on his back and Sam is counting his freckles. "Is that why you were walkn' funny? He screwed you too hard, made you all hurt because you wanted him to?”

"Sammy please, Dad's gonna hear..." Sam’s nostrils flare when he sees bubble gum pink lips stuck between teeth, bitten off to try and be a little quieter. Because Dad's next door. Because Dad is in the shower and the only thing keepin' him from walking in right now is a door that Sam forgot to lock, because he didn't need to. "We can't, I can't, let's just pretend this didn't happen, okay? Let's get cleaned up, we can watch some t.v and pack-" Sam moves so fast it’s unsettling, diving between Dean’s legs, crushing Dean’s dick with his weight.

“No you don’t, Dean, no you fuckin’ don’t,” Sam growls, and his hand is touching Dean's dick, grabbing him through his boxers and it's so thick, hothothot through the fabric, Dean looking like he's been shot. "We aren't just gonna...gonna stuff this into the drawer of shit we don't talk about, not like mom, not like Palo Alto, not like Kieth-" And Sam is seeing red, fury and jealousy eating away at his insides like a nail is drilling into his heart. "You won't let me touch you, won't let me even _talk_ about it, but you'd let a guy named Keith into your mouth." Sam's heart is aching, hand rubbing up against his fucking big brother, who likes a cock down his throat, likes it when it hurts. "I'd let you in my mouth. I'd take all of you, wouldn't let it hurt. Not unless you needed it to hurt." 

Dean's cock twitches in his hand.

“And these.” Plump and pinky soft, badly chapped and littered with stardust freckles. His voice is black honey, husky low in a way puberty hasn't been hitting it yet. He’s pushing his thumb into Dean’s mouth, green eyes open and scared below him. “Your lips."

A rough wet tongue is pushing at him, trying to force him out even as Dean's legs spread open and arch towards him, and his ass is rubbing against Sam, against his...his..." I started dreamn' about you only days after I saw it. I couldn't stop. Couldn't turn it off. Just kept comn' back to your lips." Sam is pushing in his index finger, angling too far and touching the back of Dean's throat, and he's gagging, but his lips close around the fingers in his mouth almost on instinct. "I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop staring at you."

Sam’s only whispering, but every syllable makes Dean's heaving breathes hitch a little more, groan a little louder. Like Sam’s got a .45 to his skull and just keeps pumping the trigger,  _bang bang, he shot me down._  “I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t quit thinking about you. Nothin’ I did worked.”

Dean's eyes squeeze shut tighttighttight and he fucking  _moans,_ choked out and writhing, hands knuckle gripped on the bed. His hips are hitching up, tiny little circles in his lap, and he's throbbing, Sam can see the freaking pulses in his underwear-

He gets his fingers in the waist band and rips the damn things off, Dean's legs flailing, curses half delirious, "Sammy please, I can't, we  _can't,"_  And Sam finally get's his fingers around him, pressing his thumb hard into the weeping slit.

"Shit!" Dean yells, and clamps a hand down on his mouth because  _Daddy is right next door,_ "Sammy, baby, please-" More precum is dribbling out. Dean's right hand is gripping the sheets, deathly still save for the jerking movements he makes every time Sammy moves his fingers.

Sam cranes forward, can’t help it, doesn’t think about it, just goes in with his tongue to catch it all, can’t let it go to waste. He recoils slightly at the taste, sense almost coming back before he hears Dean's breath hitch and he can't stop, licks over the head of Dean’s cock, the sweet hot-hard velvet of it so fucking perfect against his lips, on his tongue. 

“Goddamnit, Sammy.” His voice warbles, desperate, like someone just died. Dean’s belly is sucking in and out fast, fear-fast, like he’s terrified of what Sam is doing to him. Dean’s hand is in his hair, pushing him off, pushing him away, even though his hips are bucking up, telling Sam that Dean is all but begging.

He’s been dreaming about this, thinking about this, for so fucking long, and now his lips are opening up, wrapping his mouth around Dean’s dick, getting another hot rush of slick spilling across his tongue.

“Sammy, I can’t,” Dean sobs, hand gripping his ratty too long hair so hard it’s shaking. “Baby, God, just gimme. Gimme a second. I ca-can’t. I need.”

Sam glares up at him, showing his teeth. "Yes you can. Yes you fucking can, and you  _will."_ He hisses before dropping back down and taking him in as far as he can, quick and dirty and dying. The breath punches out of Deans chest and his head snaps to the door again, eyes wide as they can go, worried that that tiny noise is gonna send John in, guns blazing. Sam stays down as long as he can before he gags, has to come up for air. "I've seen you do it. I know what you can and can't do, and  _you're going to fucking give me this._ Take it _. Fucking take it."_ He's tonguing at the head, over and over and Dean's legs are jerking, kicking out and he's practically screaming into his palm, hot wet sobs wracking his body when he starts fucking his hips up into his baby brother's mouth. Sam can feel the tremble of Dean’s fingers in his hair, can feel the overwhelm of emotion in his thighs, rising up out of Dean, and  _that's_  what makes him pull back, makes him press a soft, almost solemn kiss to the head of Dean’s dick but he stops, rests his cheek on Dean’s thigh, face all but buried against his stomach.

Dean sounds like he's crying. His eyes are locked to the door.

"I want you so bad I can't think sometimes." Dean whispers, fingers threading through the sweaty bangs on Sam's forehead. Sam feels a lump in his throat so wide it could swallow him, consume him, take everything all apart and put it back together in a four letter word he's spoken all his life.

 Sam tightens his hand around Dean’s dick, gives him a slow, twisting stroke up, gathering up skin to press his lips to, to tender with kisses.

“Did he touch you like this?” he murmurs against the tip of his cock, lifting up just enough so he can wrap his lips around it, let his tongue slip out and lick it all over.

“God, he wasn’t you. He wasn’t you, Sammy. H-he.” Dean hiccups, legs still bowed and open, and Sam can see...he can...

Oh.

Jesus.

“You ok?” Dean asks, unsure and small, so different from the cocky face of the hunter he's used to.   
  
“Yeah,” Sam nods, trying really hard not to focus on Dean's puffy red asshole, sore looking and still slicked up. Wet.  
  
“Flip over.”  
  
It’s not really a request, but Dean stutters, “What?” anyway in an attempt to jump-start his body back into breathing.  
  
Sam repeats, “Flip over,” snarl low and angry. Dean's still stammering out  _w-what_ while Sam's palming his hip and rolling him over onto his stomach. “What are you…”  
  
Slender fingers pull apart Dean’s ass cheeks and the air in his lungs turns to solid rock. It feels like Sam's whole lower body lurches with the nervous twitch the puffy little thing makes.   
  
“He fucked you too hard." It's so swollen, red rippling across his cheeks and finger nail lines criss-crossing where someone should've fucking kissed. "You don't even _talk_ to me anymore. You won't even let me lick you, won't put yourself in my mouth, but you'll let some horny idiot stuff you full. Let somebody hurt you.” Wet and nasty-sounding, Sam spits, a hot spatter right there on Dean's hole and Dean yelps, even as his knees press up and out twitchily.  
  
“ _fuck._ ” His voice comes out a whisper when the blunt press Sam's finger tips touch it, angry tender looking wrinkle of skin that Sammy wants to girlfriend kiss better.

“Breathe out,” Sam commands and on reflex, (ever the good little soldier,) he does.

He pushes hard, thin index finger sliding into Dean's ass and Dean is gasping, shoving his face into the pillow, Sam burrowing red hot inside and feeling the clench down.  
  
Carefully, (carefulcarefulcareful) he slides his finger almost free, presses back in with a second that makes a squishing sound as something sticky liquid starts seeping out of his brother. Sam's going to kill him. Sam's going to kill whoever touched him here, going to rip his balls off and shove a machete down his throat. "He came in your ass, didn't he? Shoved up too deep, thrust in too hard. And you liked it."

Dean's silent, grinding back against his knuckles.  
  
“Jesus, you're so tight. Does it always feel like this?” Christ, he can feel Dean swallow. That’s so messed up. His dick is suffocating in his jeans, balls pulled up tight. “So pretty, Dean you're so fucking pretty it hurts. Your ass, oh my god, it's too pretty.” The fingers in him drag out about halfway, rough second knuckles rasping against the rim where he feels hot and swollen, push back in and spread.  
  
Dean grunts. "Stop calln' me pretty, bitch," can’t hold back the, “Oh,” that jolts out of him, another that follows, low and growly, when his body forces his brother’s fingers back together again.

It was the catalyst, that little motel in Denver that they'd up and left the next day, and it was loving hands brushing out his tangles, rumbling laughter cutting into his spleen, nervous glances and quiet goodnight hugs and all the ways they'd learned to say "I love you." Fat hot tears are blinking out of bright eyes, Dean rubbing them away on the pillow case, only to get more falling out and taking their place with his face locked towards the door.

It made sense in a sick way, a bad way, but his heart and head and soul was throbbing with a scratched record bumbling over the exact same name.

Loving or being in love, Sam can no longer tell the difference. Probably never had. It was all for Dean, anyways. Always.

Dean’s breath shudders against the pillows, and Sam can't take it anymore, needs to taste, needs to soothe with tongue and lips and teethe and tell Dean with all the words he won't believe that  _he's so pretty_. He slips his fingers out, sudden and almost apologetic, and leans down until he can kitten lick the space where his brother let somebody else inside of him.

"JESUS," Dean stifles his scream in the sheets, back arched and ass in the air as Sam kisses wetly at his abused hole, sucking it in between his lips and tonguing inside “Sam. Sam, I can’t. Sammy, I.” Dean is shaking all over, his dick gushing clear almost-sweet slick, the sounds Dean’s making getting closer together, more stuttered-out, incoherent. Sam wraps his lips around him, fucking his tongue inside as deep as he can against Dean’s bucking, desperate hips, hole that's growing hotter and hotter in his mouth, that feels so fucking soft and swollen and in need of dirty kisses.

Dean’s fingers are bumping against Sam’s on his thigh and Sam’s lift up, let Dean’s tangle with them, clutch together. Sam feels it again, that _lovelovelovelove_  feeling, that everything is so, so right feeling, that euphoria that makes him feel dizzy, like nothing will ever, ever be wrong again. Sweat has turned the space between them slick and flooded it with the hot smell of sex, so unfamiliar and so fucked-up-soothing that it makes Sam want to die because all he can think is  _deandeandean._  Dean pushes his ass back, grinding slowly against the front of Sam's pants and Sam swear's he can hear his nerves sizzling, too overloaded to do anything but fry like bacon in a pan as his body snaps taut and he comes and comes and comes in his goddamn jeans.

 _Again._  
  
Dean's back is warm against his damp face as Sam scrubs his cheek against him, tries to remember what it was like when he couldn’t feel his pulse in his fingertips. It’s jarring to find himself quiet, body underneath him squirming around the unsatisfyingly hollow space where Sam's reclaimed his mouth. " _Oh my god,_  baby, baby did you. Did you just-

"Yeah." Sam yawns, lanky arms reaching around and fisting Dean back into his hand, pleasant weight settled in. "Fuck my hand, De. I wanna feel you come."

Dean's eyes are screwed up tight, silent  _oh my god_ jerking out of a wet mouth, and he starts thrusting. He’s making bitten off little sounds, a counterpoint to the soft creak of the mattress springs and the slap of flesh on flesh. Sam nuzzles his head into the back of Dean's neck, breathing him in, still fully clothed and sleepy happy while Dean's dying underneath him.

 “Why?” his voice is thick with emotion, sobbing against the pillow, only the tip of his cock resting in his baby brothers fist, sacred and profane. Then static as he rushes forward, friction of skin against skin and Sam's heart hurts bad.  
  
“Sammy, please, I-I, I can't-  _w_ _hy_?” Deep, sweet, undeniable, unavoidable pleasure in his gut. _“Sammy."_

"Because I love you."

Dean comes apart in his hand, in his chest, in his heart.

 

John's passed out on the couch. The T.V is running softly in the living room. They lay in bed together, Sam’s cheek pressed over his brothers chest, an arm around his neck and a leg twined in his. The sight of skin freckled and pale, washed clean and kissed better, against the dark olive of his own is almost too much, too normal, too good. Dean's fingers are stroking his hair absently like they didn't just break down something filthy inside that they hadn't even realized was there.  
  
"Why do you let them hurt you, De?" Sam's fifteen, hard elbows and oily skin and bursting with  too much love in his ribcage. Dean is staring at the ceiling, eyes pained and weirdly wet looking. Sammy drags his hand up his brothers chest to rest in the crook of his ribs so he can feel his heartbeat.

 _Pat. Pat. Pat._  Like a bird in a cage, cracking it's skull on the bars every few seconds and just gettn' up again to fly on clipped wings.

"Maybe I deserve it."

"No you don't."

_Pat. Pat. Pat._

"I messed you up. I tried so hard not to, went out and took care of it on my own, took this sick thing and shoved it away form you. And it still got you. I'm sick and I messed you up." Dean's other arm comes across Sam's back, cradling him tighttighttight against his chest, knee thumping in between Sammy's legs and wrapping him up like a present. Like a baby. Like his baby boy.  
  
Sam just holds him right back, feeling safe and happy and tinged too deep, wishing he could take all Dean's hurts away. “I’ve been sick for years, you know. This isn’t new. It was all you, always. First time I jacked off, I did it listening to you with some girl. Listening to the noises you made. When you came I came too."

Wet hits his hair, and Sam holds on tighter, lips skimming shower scrubbed collarbones and pressing to the love bruise hickey he left. No fingerprints. Nothing hard. Just soft and aching and sugar sweet. Everything Dean deserves, everything he thinks he can't have.

"Didn't really realize it. Shoved it down, put it away, until last summer in Maryland. You thought I was asleep."

Dean's shaking again, rocking his baby brother back and forth and biting down sounds that leave Sam fucked up and hollow, wishing he could crawl inside and kiss away this thing eating at the only person Sam's ever wanted to take to homecoming.

"You fucked the motel secretary in the bed next to mine. Just kept talkn', telln' her how sweet she was. How good. I wanted to be good for you, too. And you fucking crawled into bed with me, held me like you hadn't just fucked a woman in her thirties. Told her to be good for you. And I wanted that. Wanted it so much I fingered myself in the bathroom, didn't even know what I was doin', just knew you wanted a girl and I could be a girl for you, cherry tight for you."

"Sammy, stop, baby..."

"I'll be anything, Dean. Anything you want, anything you need. I'd even hurt you if you wanted it, but you don't. I know you don't. You just think you deserve it for wanting to fuck your brother."

Dean's sobbing into his hair, and Sam is cruel. He's sick and messed up and too in love to notice if that's a bad thing. "You didn't mess me up. It took me a while to notice, but it wasn't you, De. I need you. I can't let you go. I'm never going to let you go."  
  
Sammy's heart is breaking all over, stuck full of pain for making his strong big brother cry, stuck full of bubbles because Dean hasn't held him like this in years, since he got too big and Dad said no. Stuck full of hope, because he thinks Dean might just need him, too.

Dean whispers softly, "They all looked like you."

Stuck full of this fragile thing that they'd die for, if only they had the chance.

 

 


End file.
